A THIRST FOR VENGEANCE
by Carla K
Summary: Johnny Lancer is forced to confront a shadow from his gunfighter past


A THIRST FOR VENGEANCE  
  
A Lancer story by Carla Keehn  
  
This story is written for entertainment only, not profit, and is not meant to infringe on any existing copyrights.  
  
Thin slivers of sunlight made patterns on the floor as the golden beams forced their way through the thick draperies into the darkened room.  
  
The room was quiet except for the swishing sound that the nurse's stiffly starched skirt made as she busied herself with the mornings routine.  
  
As she worked, her blue eyes swept across the room, coming to rest on the figure hunched forward in a crudely fashioned wooden wheelchair. For a moment, her eyes moistened in pity. She wondered, sometimes, if the patient was even aware of her presence in the room.  
  
The hardened nurse quickly swept any thoughts of sympathy aside. Her patient was soon going to be tried for attempted murder, that is if the Sheriff and the Doctor could agree on whether or not the old man was mentally competent to do so. Many of the people in town were against a trial – after all, the man had lost a wife and son – wasn't that punishment enough?  
  
She took a deep breath and pasted a kind smile on her face. "Good morning, Mr. Rogers. How are we feeling today?"  
  
The morning's routine remained the same. The man remained silent for a long moment before fixing his eyes on the woman. She saw the hatred burning in his eyes, like an uncontrollable fever, just as she had seen it so many times before.  
  
All of the doctors at the small hospital agreed that there was nothing physically wrong with the man. There was no reason for him to be confined to that wheelchair.  
  
But outside appearances are deceiving. Confined in a distant wing of the hospital, few people knew of the man's deteriorated mental condition. The murderous fury that raged inside of him like an inferno had left him shattered, left him an invalid who's only focus was wreak vengeance on the one person that he felt was responsible for his current situation.  
  
  
  
  
  
She continued speaking even though the man's manner made her ill at ease. "Perhaps some hot food would make you feel better, Mr. Rogers. Perhaps you'd like this tray?"  
  
"Don't want no tray. I gotta thirst though, you gonna bring me somethin' for my thirst?"  
  
"That depends on what you're thirsty for – you know that Doctor Parsons doesn't allow his patients to take whiskey."  
  
"Whiskey!" The man laughed until the laughter turned into a hacking cough. He drew in a labored breath then continued speaking. "Whiskey ain't gonna do me any good – won't take care of the pain I'm feelin' inside." His eyes bored into her and the man became suddenly animated. "I gotta a whale of a thirst – for vengeance . . .You bring him here to me, that bastard that killed my wife and son . . . cause the only thing I'm thirstin' for is vengeance . . ."  
  
The patient's virulent response to the nurse's questions grew more and more unnerving with each passing day. The woman patted the pocket of her apron reassuringly. The keys to the room were still there, thank goodness. Everyone's biggest fear was keeping the man confined until the trial. There was no telling what would happen if he were to escape from the safety of the hospital. He was dangerous – not only to himself but to the man he hated, a man named Johnny Lancer.  
  
His spleen vented, the man maneuvered his antiquated wheelchair over to the window and quieted as his eyes settled on the street below.  
  
Normalcy had returned to the day. Hour after hour, the man would sit and wait, hoping for even a brief glimpse of Johnny Madrid Lancer.  
  
The nurse shook her head sadly as she tried to quell the feeling of unease that continued to nag at her insides.  
  
  
  
* * * *  
  
Later that same morning, a rickety buckboard was bouncing up and down unmercifully as it traveled over the rutted main road outside of town.  
  
The wagon dipped forward and Johnny Lancer felt his stomach lurch. He turned and glared at the man sitting beside him.  
  
  
  
"Shove over, I'm taking the reins," Johnny growled. "I knew it was wrong to let you drive . . ."  
  
Lancer's brother, Scott, shook his head stubbornly. Johnny saw his brother's hands tighten their grip on the reins. The dark haired man swore under his breath. Short of having a brawl, he knew there was no way that his brother was going to relinquish his place to Johnny.  
  
"Might I remind you, brother," Scott replied calmly, his eyes never wavering from the road ahead, "that it was your idea to come. It's too soon for you to be up around, not with that shoulder wound of yours as tender as it is."  
  
Johnny sighed loudly. For the past three weeks, he'd heard nothing but comments like that, from his father, his brother, his father's ward, Theresa. They all meant well, of course, but a man could only stomach so much babying, especially a man like Johnny. On his own from an early age, the reformed gunfighter still wasn't used to being part of a family.  
  
"Save the lecture, Boston," Johnny grumbled. "I already got an earful of that kind of talk from Theresa before we left the ranch."  
  
Scott was ready with a sharp answer but decided against it. He knew that being confined to bed for weeks had made Johnny as restless and jumpy as a caged animal.  
  
We came so close to losing him . . . Scott thought grimly. He wished there was a way to make his brother understand that the family's concern was born out of the fear they had all felt after Johnny had been injured in that gunfight.  
  
The blond haired man pushed his troubled thoughts aside. He gently slowed the wagon until it came to a stop across in front of the Express Office.  
  
"I'll get the mail," Scott said, trying to lighten the mood between the two of them. "Afterwards we can pick up those supplies at the Mercantile and still have time for a cold drink at the saloon."  
  
The younger Lancer remained silent. He hardly noticed Scott's departure, his  
  
attention drawn to the center of the town. Was it really only a few weeks  
  
ago that he'd been shot there, for all the townspeople to see?  
  
  
  
Days of fever had wiped out most of his memory of that time. He remembered  
  
being in the saloon, minding his own business, when the old man had  
  
challenged him to a fight.  
  
The man's face wasn't familiar to Johnny but that wasn't surprising, given  
  
the number of times he'd been in that situation. And while he couldn't  
  
recall the man's name, his story was the same, a story that he'd heard  
  
many times before.  
  
". . . You killed my boy . . . my wife . . ." The man's words had haunted  
  
him for weeks, stabbing at him like a hot poker. Even though he had long  
  
ago left behind the life of a gunfighter, the reputation associated with his  
  
past life continued to shadow him without mercy.  
  
Meanwhile, across the street, on the second floor of the hospital, the wheel  
  
chair bound man's breath quickened. His patience had been rewarded - the object of his vengeance was in sight.  
  
The doctors and nurses had spent weeks trying to convince him that he was  
  
wrong, that Lancer hadn't killed his family. But the man knew better.  
  
His son had idolized the life that Lancer led, a life that centered on women, and fast living. A hog farmer by trade, Otis Rogers had expected his son to assume responsibilities for the farm and eventually take over. Instead, the youth ignored his father's wishes and had longed for the excitement and glamour that Johnny Lancer's life seemed to hold.  
  
The worried father had feared for many years that his son's ideals would lead to tragedy. His nightmare came true when his boy, who was only 18, went into the saloon and challenged Lancer to a fight. His son died. His wife  
  
died not long after, her heart broken by the loss of their only child. The two deaths, one right after the other, had fueled the desire that festered inside of him, the desire to get rid of men like Lancer once and for all.  
  
The patient straightened painfully in his chair, eyeing the nurse cagily. She thought he was unbalanced – everyone at the hospital did. He heard the whispers in the hallway outside of his door. About his mental state. And how afraid everyone was that he would escape.  
  
They had good reason to be afraid - - because no one was going to stop him, not this time. Lancer was here and it was time for him to have his revenge.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I reckon . . ." The man paused. His voice was rusty from lack of use.  
  
The nurse looked at him expectantly. "Yes?"  
  
He coughed, then continued. "I reckon that you're right – I would like that food. A man's gotta take care of his insides."  
  
"Why, yes . . . certainly, Mr. Rogers," the nurse replied, hesitantly. A sudden change had come over the man, but why, she wondered? The anger was gone, replaced by . . .  
  
The nurse interrupted the thought, berating herself as she settled the tray in the man's lap. She had no right to be suspicious or uneasy. Perhaps all of the long hours that she'd spent with the man, caring for him, had begun to penetrate whatever was ailing his mind. She prayed that this meant that a time of healing had begun for the man.  
  
Rogers watched intently as the woman fussed over him, settling the tray and seeing to his comfort.  
  
His gnarly hand slid up, grasping the fork beside the tray firmly. It wasn't much of a weapon but it would do. The key to his escape was in her apron – he had to have it – now – before Lancer got away . . .  
  
* * * *  
  
Meanwhile, in the street below, hazy memories continued to prick at Johnny's mind. The incident in the saloon had escalated in short order to a confrontation in the center of town.  
  
And then . . .  
  
Then there was nothing except the sensation of pain and sounds of worried voices discussing his condition in hushed tones.  
  
His father, Scott – everyone had tried to convince him that the shooting wasn't his fault, that, like his son before him, the old man had provoked it.  
  
But their words were meaningless. As far as Johnny was concerned, the trail of blood that he'd tried to leave behind had followed him and stained the new life that he was trying to build.  
  
Lancer glanced up at the broiling sun. Wonder what's keeping Scott . . . he thought with a scowl. The idea of grabbing a cold beer was becoming more appealing with each passing second.  
  
Just then a high-pitched scream cut through the air, drawing Johnny's attention across the street.  
  
The shadowy image that haunted Lancer's fevered dreams during the past few weeks had come to life. The old man stood in the doorway of the hospital. His craggy features were animated, his body re-energized and brought to life by the fresh rush of hatred that was coursing through his veins.  
  
Behind him, Johnny could see the nurse in pursuit, face white and eyes wide with fear. "No, Mr. Rogers!" she implored. "Please, don't do this!"  
  
Totally consumed by emotion, the old man ignored the desperate woman's words.  
  
"Laaanceeer!" He took a defiant step forward. "I got me a whale of a thirst – and the only thing that's gonna satisfy it is seein' you bleed, the way my boy did!"  
  
Everyday life in the town stopped suddenly, just as it had several weeks earlier, during the men's first confrontation. One by one, the shops and saloons emptied out as everyone's attention focused on the drama unfolding in the street.  
  
A few yards away, an anguished Scott was watching his brother. Much as he wanted to help, he knew his brother well enough to know that Johnny was a proud man that would want to handle the situation alone.  
  
Johnny straightened slowly, his eyes purposefully taking in the old man's every move. Cautiously, he tried to hide the pain he felt as he moved. His gun hand flexed slowly, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through his arm. Maybe his time had come – Perhaps this was the one fight that he couldn't win.  
  
"He's got a knife!" The nurse shouted. "Someone get the sheriff!"  
  
  
  
Rogers glared at the woman, shoving her back at the same time. He raised the knife menacingly.  
  
"Leave her alone," Johnny growled in an even tone. "You want to settle this. then let's settle it – -now - - once and for all - -"  
  
The man nodded, tossing the frightened woman aside like a used rag.  
  
Lancer took a deep breath as he stepped down from the wagon.  
  
"I have no quarrel with you," Johnny growled. "Let the past go, old man."  
  
The man licked his lips. "Sounds like you're a coward, Lancer. You don't mind taking the life of an innocent but you can't stomach it when you have to face a man."  
  
The rhetoric between the two caused several of the ladies to gasp. Despite the fear that was spreading through the crowd like a contagion, most of the people assembled thought that it was a matter to be settled among the two men. A matter not to be interfered with.  
  
"Well this time, you're gonna face things, Lancer," the man continued, his voice rising in pitch. "This time, someone's gonna make you pay for all the blood that you and your kind has shed - -"  
  
Knife raised, the man lunged at Johnny, his face frozen in a mask of rage. His body was shaking as the anger that was fueling his insides began to consume his total being.  
  
Unable to stand anymore, Scott rushed forward at the same time. A hush came over the crowd, their breath still as they waited for what looked to be the inevitable end to the confrontation.  
  
Then fate suddenly intervened.  
  
The man, arm raised, stopped in mid-stride. A choking sound rent the air and although the man was gasping badly for air, hatred forced his ailing body to press forward.  
  
In the end, though, even the man's hatred wasn't enough to overcome the sickness that was tearing at his body. Beads of sweat ran down the man's face. Then the knife dropped and Rogers clutched his chest.  
  
Johnny knew that he was face to face with death . . .  
  
Rogers' face broke into a twisted smile. His thirst had been satisfied. "'nother . . . death on your conscience . . .L-Lancer . . ." The man sucked in a painful breath. "M-more . . .blood . . . on – your – hands - -"  
  
Then his heart gave out and the man's body pitched forward in the dirt . . .  
  
The frozen tableau of the townspeople suddenly came to life again. The crowd began to disperse, some in surprise at the man's death, others disappointed that they'd been cheated out what could have been a more spectacular show.  
  
Johnny and Scott looked down in meditative silence at the still form lying in the street.  
  
Johnny swallowed hard, choking back the vile that rose in his throat. The man's death had left an indelible imprint his memory. Was this a sign that the past could never be left behind, no matter how hard he tried?  
  
Johnny's eyes came to rest on the deceased man for a final time. The crowd had gone, leaving the body unattended until the Sheriff arrived. There were no tears shed, no emotion shown for the tormented man who'd died a few short minutes ago.  
  
What was worse, Johnny wondered suddenly, being haunted by the past, or dying alone . . .  
  
Beside him, Scott glanced at his brother's face. Johnny glanced down, too late though, to hide the emotional upheaval that he felt from his brother. Scott felt the anger rise up inside of him – anger at the people who were supposed to be looking after the dead man and at the man himself for adding to the burden that his brother carried.  
  
A fresh stain on the new life that Johnny is trying to build . . . Scott thought bitterly. It seemed that in spite of his brother's best efforts, his gunfighter past was never far behind.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Scott tried to shake off the effects of the incident, forcing himself to strengthen his resolve. He was going to help his brother overcome the past - - no matter what, no matter how long it took - -  
  
"Let's go home, brother . . ."  
  
The two Lancer brothers slowly moved on, leaving behind the shadow of death that had made its presence known once again in the life of Johnny Lancer.  
  
The End 


End file.
